


dilettante

by orphan_account



Category: Joker (2019), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 08:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21250076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bits and pieces from stories that I'll never finish, and vignettes too short to stand on their own.





	1. Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne, Joker (2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this for a Friend for her birthday. She asked for something "morbid yet domestic." This, instead, is a selection of scenes from a fic about Arthur training Bruce to become a vigilante.

The bruises on Bruce's throat tell Arthur that someone has tried to pit him like a peach, so he peels him like a clementine to compensate, the bitter rind of his bloodied clothing falling to the floor in a familiar slump, his fingers as gentle as a lover's should be as they brush the tender fruitflesh of Bruce's soft stomach, preparing him for the warm bath that he has drawn them.

It had taken Bruce a few months to ease Arthur into the bath with him, first with ice water to mimic the sensation of freezing, then to a lukewarm so forgettable that they might as well have been sitting in empty air. The graduation to warmth is recent; they had washed each other, like this, over the weekend, Arthur carefully sculpting Bruce a beard comprised of soap bubbles, Bruce plunging his hands into the water to turn Arthur's soft cock over in them until it began to harden. It was a perfectly pleasant experience that Arthur was open to experiencing again, so, when they had returned from target practice, Bruce had kept hold of Arthur's hand, tugging him up the stairs to the master bath.

Once Bruce has settled between his legs, the water sloshing threateningly but only licking the rim of the tub, Arthur kisses the darkest bruise, painted over his pulse point. It makes Bruce shiver.

"Who gave you these?" Arthur asks in between alternating kisses and sucks. Bruce squirms, his cock twitching, barely visible beneath the water, and sighs. "Nobody," he answers distractedly as Arthur buries his face in Bruce's hair, still mostly dry, only a little damp with sweat and sticky with blood, and breathes him in.

"Those are an awful lot of bruises for Nobody to give you," Arthur says, muffled, into his scalp. He lifts a wet hand, his fingers curling around the hair at the nape of Bruce's neck. "What did Nobody look like when he was giving you them?"

"Angry," Bruce responds. "But because he was scared, I think."

"And why was he scared?"

"Because I grabbed his gun."

-

Bruce prefers the knife but understands, in the coldly logical way of someone reared by Thomas Wayne, that guns are safer. "You have to be close to someone to use a knife on them," Arthur reminds him. "You can neutralize a target from a much farther distance if you use a firearm."

To Bruce, life with Arthur is much like living inside of a film, or many films. He is the protagonist, always, but Arthur plays many roles - the mentor, as he steadies Bruce's aim; the fool, as he accidentally pulls the trigger for him. The damsel in distress, as Bruce cleans and dresses his wounds. The lover, at night, as he takes Bruce into his arms and kisses him, heady in its softness, all-consumed. But Bruce is not so taken with life on the silver screen that he lacks sense.

"You stole that from a movie," he accuses him blandly.

"...And what if I did?" Arthur asks after a long moment.


	2. Bruce Wayne/The Joker, Suicide Squad (2016)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began writing this for another Friend. Believe it or not, a praying mantis made me do it!

J is floating as high as a fucking cloud when Bruce finds him.

"_Bats_," he slurs happily, elongating the 'A' and turning the 'S' perversely sibilant, like he's already halfway to climbing onto Bruce's dick. It's not an unpleasant thought, unfortunately, but that is not why Bruce is here. Business before pleasure, and all of that.

"J," he greets him curtly, eying the sticky fabric of the couch J is practically passed out on. The couch is stolen, of course, the warehouse that holds it colonized by his crew. Most of what J owns was cultivated through the fine art of thievery, and only a few instances of transactional fellatio. He brushes the cushion that J's not melted across off more as a habit than anything else, and sits, maneuvering J's legs so that they're resting on his lap. "I'm here to ask you a few questions," he adds, incredibly belated.

"No, you're no_t_," J says, popping the 'T,' slicing a look Bruce's way that cuts immediately through the bullshit, so quick that Bruce himself doesn't even realize that it's bullshit until after he's spoken. "Pleasure before business. And it _is_ a pleasure, Master Wayne." He smiles all shiny and silver, a mouth full of slick, glittering jewels. It's distracting, drawing Bruce's eye to his mouth over and over again.

He loathes the distraction. The intelligence, too, buried under layers of it. J is a bird puffing its feather out so far that you see nothing but them, a human sort of paratrepsis. He keeps your sight fixed to the right so that you're taken unaware by the left. It's gauche, really, but Bruce was born into wealth. He'd become accustomed to it long before meeting J.

"I really did need to ask you a couple of things," Bruce says as J flexes his limbs, climbing into his lap. He's shirtless, of course. Bruce runs his hands down J's abs - his glamour muscles, Bruce mocks him, though they both know that at least some of the hard flesh beneath his fingers is from the dirty street-style combat that he prefers - which earns him a full-body shiver.


	3. Arthur Fleck/Bruce Wayne, Joker (2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Friend gave me the one-word prompt of "spit."

"Open your mouth."

This is not an unusual request. Bruce prefers Arthur's mouth to most other parts of him. He'd found the cigarettes fascinating at first, a pauper's vice. He'd seen plenty of his parents' wealthy acquaintances smoking, but those had been expensive cigars, slim and fashionable brands bearing names as if they were governmental branches. Arthur smokes Marlboros, now, but the packs that he used to carry in his jacket pockets were so cheap that they bore no name. It felt illicit, at first, then nakedly thrilling enough that even Arthur, in his naivety, felt obliged to pluck one from his mouth and hand it off to Bruce.

Smoking felt very grown-up. It tasted awful, like he'd inhaled soot, but settled in his stomach like a swallowed ember. It was still damp around the tip, with Arthur's saliva. It was, Bruce had realized with a start, a lot like kissing.

Arthur would kiss him, later. Arthur would kiss him many times, actually; Bruce has happily lost count. The fondness for his mouth only grew. And Arthur is obliging, still, as he opens his mouth. He's watching the subtle undulations of Bruce's stomach, his chest, as he breathes, mostly to give his eyes something to rest on besides his cock.

"I'm not going to put it in your mouth," Bruce tells him flatly.

Arthur meets his eyes, and flushes. "I'm sorry," he says. He apologizes far too often; it irritates Bruce underneath the pride of knowledge that he has brought Arthur to heel.

"Don't apologize. Keep your mouth open."

Arthur obliges, again. He's on his knees, close enough to Bruce that he can feel Arthur's breath against his rib cage. The thought of Arthur taking him into his mouth is, admittedly, a pleasant one, but Bruce is curious. He takes Arthur's face in his hands, sweetly, and spits onto his tongue.

Arthur's eyes fall shut. The transparent servitude of their dynamic should disgust them both - Arthur, acquiescing to a child; Bruce, exhausted by privilege, allowing him - but Arthur's cock jerks. He's not much bigger than Bruce, there, but he's a bit thicker, and he smells so different, potent and dark like animal flesh in the creases between his thighs and groin, the space his testicles hang from.

"You can swallow," Bruce tells him, belatedly.

Arthur does so. "Thank you," he says after a moment. His voice sounds like crackling.


	4. Arthur Fleck/Gary, Joker (2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a piece of "Halloween candy" that I gave a Friend!

The fine hairs on Gary's arms stand at attention as Arthur kisses him.

This is not their first kiss, which had been no less intimate but much more - bloody, he supposes frankly, smears of pink on the top of his head already dried and flaking by the time he'd stumbled home. Arthur isn't bloody, now, but the paint is still there.

"'s hard to kiss you like this," Arthur says, pressed against, unwilling to fully part. "D' y' want to lay down with me?" His words vibrate against Gary's lips, making his teeth shiver.

"You killed four people," Gary reminds him, as if he had become amnesic in a fit of rage. Maybe he had.

Arthur pulls away from his mouth, then, but he's smiling, big and bright and so unlike the smiles that Gary had seen him adorn before. "I did," he says happily. "Did you see me? On Murray Franklin?"

"I saw you blow a fucking hole in Murray Franklin's forehead, if that's what you mean." His voice is shaking, which Arthur must find amusing, because he pats Gary's cheek gently.

"That is what I mean," he says. "Now, do you want to lay down with me? I won't make you, you know. But I like you. A lot. You were always very kind to me. And I like your accent, too; it's sort of exotic."

"Thanks," Gary says in lieu of any of the thoughts that are bouncing from the ceiling to the floor and back again. "Um. Sure."


End file.
